


The Man at the Window

by musamihi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After waking up at the pool to find John missing, Sherlock is desperate for any lead.  Written for a challenge at thegameison_sh @ LJ, prompt: undercover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man at the Window

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** for past/implied kidnapping.

The three of them are crowded at the tiny breakfast table. Dan and _Henry_ are rubbing elbows. Sherlock's here on _their_ case, and all they can do is make eyes at one another.

It ought to be sickening. It is, in a way: even after a year, fear churns cold in Sherlock's stomach at the sight of _him_. Henry may be a bad blond in a cheap suit, now, bronzed half to death, but that can't erase his essence: he's a quivering point of red light, the mesmerising, silent precursor to cataclysm.

"So. Henry." Sherlock sips at his coffee, tasting nothing. "Just back from – Ghana, was it?" Nothing about him speaks of travel. He's not even trying. He's doing this on purpose.

"Yeah." Henry's posture is adoring, but his eyes are empty. "I wish I'd been here. When Dan emailed me telling me some creep was waltzing up and staring in the windows at night, I couldn't help thinking – what if it's my fault –"

"Why would it be your fault?" Sherlock glares at the cruel constriction of Henry's mouth. _Everything's your fault._

"Well, I've got some bloody crazy exes. And I thought, what if one of them's found out I've moved in here? But – that's stupid, isn't it." He grins, baring his teeth. "People don't just _come back_ like that."

Sherlock swallows, the anger hot, bitter and ever-present on the back of his tongue. "No, they don't." He should've known.

* * *

When he first arrived, Dan took him through the front yard, retracing the steps of the mysterious stranger who'd recently begun making midnight appearances. _Walking like some kind of jerky robot,_ he said, and Sherlock saw the tracks in the patchy grass, imagined the man's debilitating limp. He let himself wonder, but only a little. He should've known better.

"Henry should be home any minute." Dan looked mournfully at his ruined gardenias. "He's been so worried – it started about when he moved in, but he's overseas so much. I know he feels awful. He's the one who told me to call you, actually."

* * *

He should've known when that shot had rung out that it was time to _fire_. But he'd expected the darkness of death, a hellish explosion of tile, steel and a swimming pool's worth of steam. Instead, John had screamed, pitching sideways and grabbing at his leg. Sherlock had hesitated a moment too long, wanting to go to him. _Stupid, stupid._ His skull had erupted in pain, and when he'd woken up … they'd all been gone.

Even John.

He'd known, then.

* * *

They talked in the kitchen next, among the clutter of appliances and moving boxes. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go back to the footprints in the garden, to feel the cold mud on his fingers.

"Sorry about the mess," Dan said, putting on a pot of coffee. "Henry hasn't even moved in properly yet – he's so busy …"

There was no reason to pursue this theory, fuelled only by the desperate desire for some sign that John wasn't lost to him forever. There was no reason at all Moriarty should dangle John in front of a complete stranger, night after night. No reason –

Except to bring _him_ here. _He's the one who told me to call you, actually._

Oh.

He should've –

He heard the front door open as though from underwater.

* * *

Sherlock should strike Moriarty dead here and now, but the hateful thread of hope binds him back. _John is walking. John is alive._

"He's not coming back." Moriarty pats Dan's arm. "If he does, I'll take care of him."

Sherlock shoots out of his chair. _He's not coming back._ "I want a word, Mr. –?"

"Watson," Moriarty offers, smiling.

"Outside." Sherlock's voice is dead in his throat.

"I'm knackered, actually – tomorrow? I'll email you –"

"Don't bother."

Moriarty will be gone long before tomorrow. This has been one play in a long, horrible game, and it'll end when Sherlock walks out the door. He should've ended all this in fire a year ago, but there's something about John – John, who's walking, who's alive – that made him play by a different set of rules. And now John is suffering for it; now Moriarty has the only card that matters.

Sherlock snaps off a mangled gardenia branch on his way out, shoving it in his pocket. He's walking. He's alive. He walks for hours before resigning himself to his empty flat, clinging to the first foolish fog of a plan.


End file.
